


And the Seasons, They Go Round and Round

by Bedalk05



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, Immortal Jaskier, Light Angst, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23779579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bedalk05/pseuds/Bedalk05
Summary: Taking hold of his emotions enough so he won’t begin shouting, Geralt stands before Jaskier, arms crossed protectively around his beating heart. “What are you?” he growls.With a heavy sigh, Jaskier leans on his elbows and peers up at Geralt. “Do you know the story of the seasons Geralt?” Jaskier inquires.In which Jaskier isn't all he appears and his rivalry with Valdo Marx is a bit more complicated than Geralt realized.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 740





	And the Seasons, They Go Round and Round

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on some Slavik mythology I explored given the fact that The Witcher was originally written in Polish. Any errors are my own. I hope you enjoy!

There was something strange about Jaskier. Well, there were a lot of things strange about Jaskier. Like how he walked up to a brooding witcher fearlessly and struck up conversation before self-appointing himself as said witcher’s bard and traveling companion. Geralt is still unsure how Jaskier convinced him to travel together but he has grown to accept Jaskier’s presence like one would resign oneself to a thorn in the side. Sure, you’ve tugged and tugged at it but it’s found itself nestled inside of you and ultimately you’ve given up tried to pull it out. Besides, the annoying sting fades away after awhile. 

Anyway, back to Jaskier’s strangeness. There were many things that happened around the bard that drew Geralt’s notice. Like how when they travelled through a town with crops and fields failing, hopeful sprouts would burst through the ground by the time they were leaving. Or how Jaskier displayed such enmity towards the bard Valdo Marx but then whispered soft words Geralt couldn’t catch to any traveling troubadour they encountered. Instead of upstaging these musicians Jaskier always simply sat back and watched on with a satisfied smile as discordant notes smoothed out into perfect melodies. Geralt was burning to know what about Marx caused the ordinarily mild-tempered bard such disgruntlement. 

And there was the time they entered a town where the shrine for the god Perun stood high on a hill while Veles’ lay low in the town. Geralt was utterly bemused by the impassioned rants Jaskier devolved into at the sight. The witcher had never heard Jaskier invoke Veles’ name in prayer or oaths so why would the bard care so much about where the shrine lay? 

And there were other things too, like how when they meet up after the winter months Jaskier always looks pale and drawn as though he hadn’t eaten or slept for months even though he claims to spend the time in luxury. Or the mischief Jaskier gets involved in, from knowingly sleeping with someone married to deliberately tripping irritating townsfolk. Not to mention the occasional growls and hisses that would slip through his tongue when annoyed and tired.

But all of these odd moments and quirks come to a head one winter when Geralt decides to surprise Jaskier. Each winter the two part, Geralt for Kaer Morhen and Jaskier for an annual bard competition in Oxenfurt. Jaskier never indicated any wish for Geralt to accompany him to these competitions but something in Geralt has softened in recent years. He would never admit it and would stab anyone who dared imply it, but something close to affection warms Geralt’s heart when he is around the bard. And when they are parted the journey feels hollow and his heart clenches as though bereft. He tried his best to ignore these feelings, smother them, but like a stubborn briar Jaskier has burrowed into Geralt’s heart. 

When he arrives at Oxenfurt however, Geralt is befuddled when no one seems to know of a bardic competition. Geralt’s confusion is further amplified when the name Jaskier draws no recognizable looks either. After the taverns and inns prove useless, Geralt finds himself at the university Jaskier claims to have attended and lecture at. But when asking for the bard Geralt is only laughed at. 

“If only that troubadour was taught here!” the wizened professor exclaims. “His infamy would bring in quite a fortune to this institution.” 

Geralt turns and strides away without a word, mind racing and something akin to panic clawing at his skin. Past conversations rise to Geralt’s mind and he tries to fit them with these new revelations just to find they fit as well as mismatching puzzle pieces. Mounting Roach, Geralt begins to ride, chasing any whisper of a lead on Jaskier’s whereabouts he can find. 

Ultimately, Geralt finds himself in a barren landscape that holds nothing but a proud oak tree. The last town he had visited pointed in this direction when asked where the bard had gone. For miles Geralt has ridden through torrential rain and it only seems to intensify as he finds himself before the tree. 

Slowly dismounting, Geralt throws out his witcher senses, only to reel back at the force of magic in the air. It is all-consuming and suffocating, overwhelming Geralt from all sides. Shaking his head to clear it, Geralt casts about without his heightened senses, ears pricking as he hears distant shouting. Unsheathing his sword, Geralt creeps closer to the tree where the voices seem to be emanating from. 

“Come and face me you cocksucking bastard of a chicken!” A voice like the wind hisses. There is something in the voice that tickles the back of Geralt’s mind with familiarity but he can’t quite place it. 

“C’mon Veles,” a voice like thunder drawls. “We both know how this ends.” At this point, driven by curiosity, Geralt finds himself at the foot of the massive oak, craning his neck up to follow the voices. Faintly, he can make out the shape of a massive serpent, red and gold scales glinting against the rain. 

“I swear I am going to write the most unflattering ballad possible until no woman will open her legs for your ugly mug and no court will open its doors for the shrieking you call singing,” hisses the giant serpent. 

Faintly, Geralt knows that he should be terrified at this sight. Nothing in the witcher bestiary has described a creature such as what he sees above him. Yet something keeps him glued to the spot. Something about that voice; the petty frustration that is so disjointed with the intimidating figure of the creature is somewhat humorous. 

Despite his witcher sight, Geralt can’t spot the second voice but bristles at its bored tone. “Veles, you know I can drop that human guise as soon as I’m bored of it. In fact I was planning to this year. It’s gotten so tiresome and yet you seem to enjoy it more and more each year.” 

Suddenly, two glowing eyes burst through the cloud and rain. Curiosity and scorn colors the yellow eyes as they assess the serpent curled around the tree. “You’ve become quite the pathetic creature Veles. Well,” and there is something so disconcerting watching those giant eyes roll. “More pathetic than usual. You’ve embraced this bardic guise a bit too much, wouldn’t you say? Following that witcher around like a lost puppy?” 

The hiss that leaves the serpent sends chills racing down Geralt’s back. “Leave him out of this Perun!” Suddenly, the serpent launches itself in the air, straining to pierce those two eyes with fangs the length of Geralt’s arm when a giant careless hand waves, sending lightning bolts piercing through the snake. 

An agonized cry leaves Geralt shaking, and he scrambles back as the massive serpent begins flying down the tree. As the body thuds onto the unforgiving earth, the unrelenting rain ceases with a snap. Blinking the leftover rain from out his eyes, Geralt jolts as the giant snake shrinks and twists until a very human and very familiar body lies in its wake. 

Geralt’s mind turns blank with panic and his body works automatically, sheathing his sword and hauling down his healing supplies from the pack on Roach before scrambling over to the prone figure of Jaskier. Gently, Geralt turns the bard over to lie on his back only to drop his supplies with numb fingers when he realizes no breath rises from Jaskier’s lungs. 

The choked gasp that leaves Geralt’s mouth is entirely foreign, as are the clumsy fingers that grasp the bard’s face. “No,” he whispers brokenly. “No this can’t be it.” A wave of all-consuming grief crashes over Geralt and with a broken whimper he lays his head on the still chest; the chest that will no longer rise with laughter, that will no longer burst with song; that will no longer house the steady beat of a heart that has lulled Geralt to sleep for countless nights. 

Geralt knows not how long he lies there, numb and uncaring of the cold seeping into his bones from the rain that had ceased so suddenly. He falls into some sort of trance, only to be jolted out of it by a groan. 

“I fucking hate when he does that,” a voice whines. Scrambling himself to his knees, Geralt stares with disbelief into eyes blue as the summer sky, placing a shaking hand over a heart that has inexplicably begun beating again. 

Foggy eyes clear as they meet Geralt’s, and Jaskier sits up abruptly before wincing and clutching his stomach. “Geralt?” he asks weakly. The man in question can only shake his head in shock, staring at the man incomprehensibly. A delicate finger gently pokes Geralt twice in the chest. “Anyone home?” Jaskier asks with a tilt of his head and quirk of his lips. 

Shaking himself, Geralt clutches Jaskier’s face and draws him closer. “You were dead,” he whispers, terrified that saying the words would make it true once again. 

A rueful smile crosses the bard’s face. “Yes, well you have a yearly tradition of visiting your family and I do too. Mine just happens to be a bit more deathy,” he adds with a grimace. 

Confusion and relief twist in Geralt’s chest until they are overrun with a more comfortable and safe emotion: anger. Sitting back on his heels Geralt crosses his arms. “Explain,” he growls, chastising himself at the tremor in his voice. 

Releasing a long sigh, Jaskier sits up straighter, wincing once again. Despite himself, Geralt reaches an arm out to steady Jaskier before pulling out his healing supplies. Shaking his head, Jaskier sets the materials to the side. “Healing supplies don’t help when there’s nothing to heal,” he remarks with a sheepish grin. 

Eyebrows furrowing with confusion Geralt gestures wordlessly at the tree, a reminder of the events that had just transpired. With a roll of his eyes and muttering something that sounds suspiciously like “mother hen,” Jaskier strips off his doublet and chemise to reveal his bare chest. 

Geralt’s blood runs cold as he takes in the sight. Angry jagged lines cross over every part of his torso leaving no space for smooth unblemished skin. It is only then that Geralt realizes that despite how frequently Jaskier has witnessed Geralt bare-chested, the bard has always been uncharacteristically shy about stripping before the witcher. Now he knows why. “You show me this and tell me there is nothing to heal?” Geralt demands, a hint of hysteria coloring his words. 

A growl rumbles in his throat at the look of pity that crosses Jaskier’s face. “Your potions and salves are powerful but nothing can heal the marks of a god Geralt,” he explains gently. Reeling at the confession of what Geralt has been hoping was simply a hallucination, the witcher launches himself to his feet and begins pacing frantically. Jaskier remains seated and half naked, watching the witcher with a carefully impassive expression. 

Taking hold of his emotions enough so he won’t begin shouting, Geralt plants his feet firmly stands before Jaskier, arms crossed protectively around his beating heart. “What are you?” he growls. 

With a heavy sigh, Jaskier leans back on his elbows and peers up at Geralt. “Do you know the story of the seasons Geralt?” Jaskier inquires. 

Realizing that he won’t get a straight answer out of the bard and it is best to go along with his whims Geralt blows out a breath through his nose impatiently. “Each year the gods Veles and Perun battle. Veles attempts to climb Perun’s tree until Prerun shoots Veles down with-” Geralt has been listing the story from memory but as the words leave his mouth everything clicks into place. “-with a lightning bolt.” 

Geralt stares at Jaskier, mind stuttering to a halt as his entire image of the bard is recalibrated. As he attempts to reconcile the mischievous, flighty bard with the deity Veles, Jaskier stands and stretches lithely before looking at Geralt expectedly. 

When the witcher says nothing Jaskier splays out his arms. “Surprise?” he says with a weak smile. 

Geralt’s mouth opens and shuts several times before he says, faintly, “I punched a god in the bollocks?” A fit of laughter like starlight bursts from Jaskier, and tension Geralt hadn’t noticed in his shoulders relaxes as a warm smile graces his companion’s face. 

Taking a bold step forward Jaskier says impishly, “I knew we would get along from that moment on.” 

Shaking his head slowly Geralt takes a matching step toward the bard and gently caresses his face, still in shock. He has been traveling with an actual god. Suddenly so much makes sense. Of course-he had been blessing the crops and troubadours they passed. And no wonder he was so annoyed at the placement of the shrines. Speaking of- “Wait is Valdo Marx the god Perun?!” Geralt asks incredulously.

“Now do you understand why I made that djinn wish?” Jaskier huffs with irritation. Geralt feels his lips quirk into a fond smile at the pout currently gracing the face of a literal god. 

“He does seem like a bit of a cocksucking bastard of a chicken,” Geralt rumbles with a soft smile. The beam that crosses Jaskier’s face wipes away any lingering doubts Geralt had been possessing. God or not, this is Jaskier, the troublesome, meddlesome, shining bard that has been Geralt’s companion for over a decade. 

Impulsively, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s hands only to stare at their clasped hands dumbly. Why did he just do that? Sure, he’s often stared at those graceful fingers and wondered what they would feel like within his palm, around his cock, but he had always stopped himself. But learning what Jaskier truly is, all of Geralt’s hesitation has fallen away like an ancient crumbling wall. His dread of Jaskier aging, his apprehension over the mystery clouding Jaskier has all faded away. But one thing continues to haunt him. Lifting his eyes to search Jaskier’s face Geralt asks helplessly, “Why me?” 

Tilting his head Jaskier replies curiously, “Why you what?” 

Releasing one of the bard’s hands Geralt gestures uselessly at himself. “Why choose to follow me around? You are a literal god and I’m a simple witcher.” 

A wounded noise leaves Jaskier’s throat and he takes a step so they are chest to chest, raising their still linked hands until they’re pressed against Geralt’s heart. “Because of this,” he responds simply with a blinding smile. “How could I not follow you when your heart shines so bright?” 

To his shock Geralt finds his body failing him, knees buckling and eyes burning as he is praised by the god before him. Steady arms envelop him and draw him down to the damp earth. For the first time in his life Geralt finds himself enveloped by another as though he needs protecting. He closes his eyes and sinks into the embrace as Jaskier croons in his ear and brushes his fingers gently through his hair. “Your soul shines brighter than any I have encountered,” Jaskier sighs. “You are my white wolf and if all I do is follow you to the end of my days I would be content.” 

His words, his touches, it was all too much. Utterly consumed by the storm of emotions flooding him, Geralt turns his head wordlessly until he finds Jaskier’s lips and claims him in a searing kiss he had dreamed of many a lonely night. He feels the shape of Jaskier’s smile before the god opens his mouth and all thoughts cease. Past and future disappear as Geralt is absorbed into every wicked lick into his mouth, every gentle caress down his back, every moan and growl coming from the body surrounding him. Time blurs and snaps together as they kiss and kiss before breaking apart. 

Unwilling to let this moment end, Geralt leans his forehead against his companion’s, keeping his eyes closed to avoid the inevitable cold reality. He knows this can’t be real; it must be a hallucination derived from grief and denial. Good things like this don’t happen to monsters like him. 

“Geralt,” a gentle voice whispers, pulling him out of the nest of darkness his mind has fallen into. “Geralt,” the voice repeats, delicate fingers tugging insistently at his hair. Raising his head and opening his eyes, Geralt braces himself to face reality only to see, confirmed, Jaskier gazing up at him, expression alive and open with adoration. “Stop thinking so hard,” Jaskier says fondly. 

Thrusting his head in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, Geralt breathes in his scent eagerly. Ozone and earth fills his nostrils, with not a whiff of the sour smell of death. “You’re here,” he breathes, almost to himself. 

A chuckle rumbles through the body beneath him. “I’m not planning on going anywhere,” Jaskier says softly with a reassuring squeeze of an arm. With a push and prod, Geralt allows himself to be laid down into the wet earth and finds he couldn’t care about the muddy ground seeping into his clothes. Not when the warm _alive_ body of his bard surrounds him. 

Jaskier leans over him with a playful smile and dancing eyes. “How about I prove to you how real and alive I am?” he suggests with a mischievous grin, rubbing his hands suggestively down Geralt’s legs. Geralt releases a soft gasp as greedy fingers work open the clasps of his armor and a snake-like tongue laves down his throat. With a huff of laughter Geralt grins dumbly at the wide open sky. Yes, there may be several strange things about Jaskier, but Geralt wouldn’t have it any other way. 


End file.
